Blooded Hound
by Xekstrin
Summary: How much of her is inside you and how much of it is Summer Rose? How much of your blood is lost on some desolate training ground, running down sinks, splattered on a bedsheet, burnt on a welding table? There has to be a fraction, a way to break it down. To rationalize that maybe if you've bled enough you can remove what's left of her and there can only be Yang. (Yang/Ruby)


It's a faded memory, like the ends of your mother's cloak.

You pulled it out of the locked chest in the closet sometimes and you held it close, buried your face in it and you swore that sometimes it still smelled like her. The strongest memory is scent, or that's what they say anyway. That's the only thing you have left, really. Time made the images gauzy, but you remember someone tall as a mountain and strong as the pillars of your father's house. Someone who smelled like pine needles and rose oil.

You used to wear it. That was the first time you asked Yang to kiss you.

It had gotten tangled up in your legs as your ran around the front yard, playing Huntress and Grimm. The planets and the stars aligned in just the right way that when you fell, your head crashed right against a sizable rock. Brilliant lights erupted behind your eyes, and Yang swore in days after that you were blacked out for a solid minute but you don't remember that.

Blood splattered all over the white wool.

After a panicked moment, she took you by the hand and led you inside where the two of you feverishly tried to clean up the mess and Yang made you promise not to tell.

"He's gonna kill us," Yang said, scrubbing at the fabric with cold water. "Oh man, he's gonna kill _me_. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I just hit my face, Yang, I didn't break anything."

Standing on a footstool to reach the sink, she turned slightly to twist her lips at you. "Your face is bloody too." With that, she shut off the sink, wringing out the ends of your mother's cloak and spreading it over the kitchen table to dry. Getting a towel, she wiped your face down, cleaning you up, and it was only when you saw your own blood that you realized how badly your head hurt, and how upset you were, and you started to cry. Very softly.

Clucking her tongue, Yang just wiped those tears away too, cleaned your face and didn't respond to your dramatics. You were grateful for that. If she had fretted too much, you're pretty certain you would have just cried harder.

Something about kindness during weakness.

"There. All better," she said, and then pulled you into a tight hug. "We'll get you your own cape, okay?"

"Can't I get a kiss, too? Kiss it better?" you asked her, and she laughed and obliged, kissing the shallow cut just beneath your lower lip.

It always comes back to blood, though, between you two.

How much of _her_ is inside you and how much of it is Summer Rose? How much of your blood is lost on some desolate training ground, running down sinks, splattered on a bedsheet, burnt on a welding table? There has to be a fraction, a way to break it down. To rationalize that maybe if you've bled enough you can remove what's left of her and there can only be Yang.

Yang's never left you.

A sizable chunk of your left thumb is gone, from when you were thirteen years old and trying to prove to your instructor that you were skilled enough to construct something in the workshop alone. There was no way you were going to finish Crescent Rose in time for finals if you didn't, you insisted.

In your distraction, the drill bit went right through your thumb, just a few inches shy of where you had been aiming. There was a syrupy thick silence, almost rueful, before your synapses functioned correctly around the sudden burst of adrenaline that had shot through your body and you _howled_.

Shaking and pale, you let Yang lead you to the nurse's office, a thick cloth wrapped around your hand while someone called your father. Later on you and Yang often joked about having the most unique fingerprint in the world. Where the hole healed up that spot on your thumb remained forever perfectly smooth, the lines interrupted by scar tissue.

Right then though you were trying not to let the other freshmen see you cry. It had been years since you last cried and you weren't going to break that track record just because of a workshop injury.

Yang wouldn't stop cracking jokes, even though concern shone panicky bright behind her eyes. Her smile was too wide and nervous to be sincere. It was more like a nervous reflex; animals baring their teeth in fear. You couldn't believe Yang was half as calm as she appeared, not when her foot tapped anxiously on the floor as she sat beside you in the waiting room.

"Oh my god," Yang said, "You're such a disaster."

"Shut it, Yang."

"Actual human disaster Ruby Rose."

Rolling your eyes, you sullenly pulled your knees up to your chest, desperate with pain. Waited for the medication to kick in. They'd tried to drug you up before anything else, and a few moments later you heard the nurse talking quietly to another one about sterilizing needles and sutures and possible nerve damage.

Shakingly, you peeled aside the edge of the cloth to take a peek at the damage. Yang quickly stopped you, one hand tight around your wrist and the other one firmly keeping pressure on the bleeding. "Don't look," she said, good natured even with her hand feeling like living steel, unyielding and taut.

"I wanna look," you argued.

"Well, don't. I'll go get your scroll and set up a movie if you need a distraction."

Pouting, you gave her your saddest puppy dog eyes. "Okay, but if you're gonna leave to do that, can I get a kiss, too? Kiss it better?"

"Hell no," she said, "That's gross." So instead she pulled your head down, pressed a kiss against your bangs. "I'll be right back, meimei."

**OoOoOo**

Wild with joy, you blossomed under your uncle's tutelage and take to the woods, blood thrumming in your veins. There was a need in you to break, to savage. Arrogance chased by an innocent energy often drove you to violence and you never gave up a hunt once you got the scent. You chase and you chase and you chase until you can't run any more, or until your prey is taken out.

The field around your mother's grave was strewn with littered gun shells steaming from the cold, and the sizzling carcasses of a half a dozen beowolves. You don't know how long you were there but it was Yang who found you, of course, scolding you so harshly that her breath came out in sparks.

"Why did you go out here all alone?" she demanded, eyes red. "Jesus, Ruby, you could have been killed!"

"I'm fine." Irritated and fifteen years old and there was a need in you to break, to savage, and your body was so hot from fighting. In a dark insistence to keep going, you wondered if Yang could be pushed to fight you as well. The fever faded as soon as it came through, just a dangerous bout of flash lightning.

You understood how she felt whenever her eyes burned scarlet, the way only firsthand knowledge could teach.

"It was just getting a little too populous out here, you know? Why bother hiring a hunter when I could do it myself?" Bracing wind hit you, cut through the fabric of your clothes harder than a knife. "We've killed Grimm before, Yang."

"Yeah, together! Or with a teacher, or with uncle Q'row, not like this!"

"Why are you yelling at me?" you wondered, "Really, why? I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm not hurt. I'm fine. I did something good. Why are you angry?"

In response, she took you by the shoulders and shook you. Nearly throttling you, like.

"_Because I was scared_!" Her arms wrapped around you, and she never was good at minding her own strength. Your spine nearly snapped when she holds you to her chest, shuffling to keep you as close as possible; your hips aligned. "I was scared." Her hand clutched the back of your head, keeping you in place, fingers tangled through your hair. "I was so, so scared."

You returned the embrace quietly, feeling the edge of guilt creep into your mind.

"I'm sorry," you said, though really you weren't. You were just sorry for making her worry; nothing stopped you from taking what you wanted before, and honestly, Yang isn't the one who is going to make you. Months later and you'll be doing the same thing, hurtling across a rooftop in hot pursuit of a mugger. It's that bloodhound reflex, the need to chase and tackle down. "I really am."

She let out a deep sigh, one you felt through your entire body from your proximity to her. Stroking your hair a few times, she let you go with reluctance, still keeping her hands on your forearms, never further than an arm's length away. "Come on," she said, sounding weary to the bone. "Let's get you home."

Even though she hadn't even let you go yet, you already ached for the loss of her touch and tightened your own grip on her shoulders, keeping her there with a murmured wait.

You looked up at her, bodies pressed close together again.

"Can't I get a kiss, too?"

It's a running joke by that point, Yang offering something to you and you following up with can't I get a kiss too?

_Can't I get a kiss, too? Kiss it better?_

It would be a lie to say you're surprised when her lips crushed against yours. It felt right, and it clicked in your head that this is what you really wanted when you saw her crunching through the snow, fire in her eyes to match the one in your veins, still aflame from the exhilaration of a job well done.

It's not just chasing. You liked being chased.

She kissed you again, taking a shuddering gulp of air between the first one and this one, but then she stopped, frozen in place.

"You had a cut on your lip," she said at once. There was very clearly no cut. The lameness of her bald-faced lie almost made you laugh, if you hadn't been suddenly terrified by what you just did. "I kissed.. it."

_I kissed it better._

"Y-yeah," you agreed.

She didn't let you go at once, her whole body still shaking from the need to keep you close, keep you in place, and you don't push her away.

She doesn't kiss you again for four years, and you don't ask.

**OoOoOo**

Piece by piece, you strapped the gloves onto her hands. Through the whole process she was quiet, reverent. There was a certain sanctity to the action that made you both subdued until it was done, and plated gold gauntlets shone on her fists.

"I made them for you," you said, and the room was too still to breathe. "I know they're not Ember Celica, and you don't have to wear them—"

She didn't let you finish. "I love them." Clenching her fists, she marveled at the fluidity of it. Though it resembled plate mail, they were flexible as a pair of leather gloves. "But do they—"

Smirking, you pressed a switch near the swell of her forefinger. It's a spot easy for her to reach with her own thumb, if she needs to, right under the first joint. The gloves retracted in a fluid motion, quiet rattling replacing the clunky gears and shifting that had accompanied Ember Celica's transformation.

When it was done it looked like a set of blocky rings on her hand, connected by thin gold filaments.

Yang's throat bobbed.

"I have to get—"

"No, you don't have to get me anything, silly," you told her, rapping your knuckles against her forehead. "I made them for you because I wanted to make them for you, not because I wanted something in return. They're a graduation gift."

"I know, but—"

Your head twitched to the side, eyebrows lifting sarcastically as you crossed your arms. _Really_? you wonder, and you knew by the way she ruefully rubbed the back of her neck she understood. She always understands.

Shaking her head, she laughed, a short scoff. "Okay, fine. Then we're at least having dinner together tonight, somewhere nice."

"Oooh, dinner sounds nice. Yeah, let's go with that. Drinks too. You're paying."

"Naturally." Leather creaks as she shrugged on her jacket. Her keys rattled in her hands, jingling as she twirled them around one finger. "Come on then," she said, going for the door. "Let's get you dinner."

And then it hit you.

"Wait."

Maybe she heard the change in your tone, because her shoulders went square.

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes guarded.

It had been so long since you asked for more. The first few months after that night had been tense, but you loved each other too much to ever really attempt maintaining distance. Personal space is not something you kept from her. There was no such thing; her life was your space.

You fit together.

"Can't I get a kiss, too?"

You knew you'd never get more than this. But you wanted just one last kiss. Once, then you'd never ask again. You could be content if just for that one kiss.

Then maybe somewhere along the road you'll fit with someone else. You'll become a huntress, and you'll bleed out in the snow after every battle, bleed it all out until there's nothing of her left.

Yang gripped the door handle very tightly, and spoke one very slow word.

"…No."

It hit you harder than a slap. You hadn't expected her to deny it— did she think you wanted more than just that?

Quickly, you tried to explain yourself. "Not…. not on the lips. Not like that." You bit your lip, suddenly mad at yourself, anxious that you had broken what had taken so many years to mend up again. "I just, I miss it Yang. I just want one more, I miss how we used to be. I want one last one to let it go. You know?"

"No," Yang said again.

"But why—"

"You _know_ why!"

A gout of flame rose up, her hair standing on end from the blast. You cover your face with your forearm, taking a step back from the heat radiating off her, hot enough to singe hair. Taking advantage of it, Yang retreated. You didn't even realize she left until the door slammed and you were left there alone in your shared bedroom, staring numbly at your feet.

**OoOoOo**

It was past midnight when she came back home. Simply by her stance in the doorway, you could tell she was drunk. Something unsteady in her footing, even before you smelled the sharp tang of alcohol wafting in.

Lying in your bed, you pretended to be asleep.

"Ruby?" she said, testing. Not hearing a response, she walked over, sat on the edge of your mattress. There are only two beds in this room, seniors getting more space to work with. No real need for bunk beds, though occasionally the pair of you threw the frames up for shits and giggles and nostalgia.

She leaned over, saw your eyes wide open as you stared at her, expression blank.

"Oh!" she said, darting back an inch. "You're awake."

"Yeah."

Silence settled uncomfortably, a bad storm in the air.

"I'm sorry," Yang said, and you responded by turning your back on her to lie on your side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to storm out like that. Do you want to…"

What? What could fix this?

"T-to talk about it?" she finished with a stammer.

"No, Yang. I don't want to talk," you told her. "I'm hurting really bad. I'm in a lot of pain."

Stricken, Yang leaned over again, pulled on your shoulder so you were lying on your back and she could get a good look at you. "Oh no, baby," she said in a hushed whisper, sounding pained as well. "I'm sorry. I would have come home sooner if I had known you weren't feeling well. Where does it hurt?"

A bitter laugh escaped you at that. You knew she was drunk, but still. It just felt obvious, with how well you could read each other on normal days.

Taking her hand, you put it over your chest, your heart.

"Here," you said.

Her fingers curled into a fist.

It was for the best that she had denied you but it still hurt, so badly. There was no such thing as a last taste of your poison to aid in letting it go. She was doing the right thing. Cutting you off.

And then you felt the full weight of her on top of you, one leg slung over so that she was sitting on your hips, straddling you. Oiled leather creaks; she ran her thumb over your heart. "Here?" she whispered.

After a moment of thought, your head jerked down in a tight nod, heart pounding in your ears.

Hesitating once, her fingers hovered over the top button on your shirt before pushing it through the fabric, leaving it undone. The next one went a little quicker, until the two halves were pushed apart and your chest was bare. The top of her palm slid down your sternum, the calloused pads rough even if the touch was soft. The metal chains of her new gauntlets shivered as she took them off, setting them on the bedside table before returning to you. Coaxing away the pain was easy. Each gentle, exploring stroke was like a needle between your ribs, letting out the pressure until you could breathe again.

She bent down, golden curls obscuring most of her face as she kissed you over your heart. She smelled like whiskey and leather, and behind it all clung the scent of rose oil, the one you dabbed behind her ears every morning.

"Where else?" she asked, and instead of responding you tug at the lapels of her jacket and yank her head towards yours, kissing her on the lips.

"Everywhere," you said, kissing her again, harder. She inhaled sharply, hissing in a desperate gulp for air between another starved kiss. "Everywhere, god, _everywhere_."


End file.
